


Taste

by Crackcrazeddragonpony



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: M/M, thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 15:24:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3773299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crackcrazeddragonpony/pseuds/Crackcrazeddragonpony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Um.. Sherlocks thoughts on his crush on John and an eventual get together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste

Sherlock had recently become aware with his slightly un-platonic feelings towards his only friend. He supposed it was natural progression. His only flat mate becomes his only partner who becomes his only friend who becomes his only confident who becomes his only interest in humanity (rephrase) who becomes his only crush who becomes his obsession.   
Sherlock is pretty sure that, if it weren't for John, after Moriarity had died he would have abandoned humanity and their boring little struggles and pathetic minds all together, to go live in some forest or just blown his brains out.   
Death was far more interesting then life. Likewise, corpses are more interesting than actual humans, John being the exception.   
It started out so innocently. He wanted John to help him at crime scenes. He wanted to spend time with John. Ignoring it did nothing. It just got worse.   
Then John started bringing every girl of legal age in Great Britain over. He wanted to kill each and every one of them, but settled for insulting them and then slinking away in the humiliation of having behaved like a fucking teen drama queen.   
And the shame of having John look like he wished Sherlock would just disappear.  
Sherlock knew that look well.   
But he couldn't help it. John should have been his. His. His blogger. His soldier. His John. His.   
He supposed that's about when the whole thing took a turn for the worse.   
He ached to touch him. To do anything. He started setting up accidents, 'accidentally' touching Johns hands, his arms, his hair. It wasn't enough though- it was like the cocaine. The more he took the more he craved, a maddening circle. Thoughts of John consumed his mind, everything led him back to his John. It was like being on a plane with a screaming child. No matter how much you wish to, you cannot smother, quiet, or ignore the child's shrieks of despair. Sherlock remembered a quote he had once heard, "all roads lead to home." Most likely it was one of Mycroft's whimsical little speeches, he usually had them deleted before the fat bastard had even finished. But something about that stuck with him. If all roads lead home, was John his home? A home is a noun. It is a place where someone lives. It comes from the Latin root of the word "domus" which roughly translates to "place of residence." Could a person be a home? Sherlock momentarily indulged himself in a fantasy, where he could cut a delicate slit along Johns torso, open up the soft pale skin and crawl inside his ribs where everything would be warm and soft and he could feel Johns every breath. Pick his Blogger apart until he found what it was- the domus, that spark that made him so perfectly irresistible, so imperfectly fascinating. He'd cradle John's throbbing heart in his hands and know with every beat that John was his. Now and always. Watch the blood pump through arteries to delicate veins, trace his lips along the delicate cracks that the war had left till his soldier was whole again and stay there till John's flesh grew around him. Then he could be a part of John forever, he could not be forgotten or cast aside or abandoned.   
But then again, if Sherlock were to think of things Mycroft had told him he would also remember that, "caring is not an advantage."  
John and Mary had gotten a separation in the light of her profession of choice. Sherlock felt a guilty glee every time he saw John sitting in his chair by the shelf.   
He had confided in Orick about his current interests, but the skull had not offered much in way of advice. Sherlock thought this rather unreasonable of him and had banished him to the tea cupboard until he lost his fowl temperament.   
Or until john made him move it.   
He secretly loved it when people would compare them to a couple. He'd watch John carefully for a reaction- dilated pupils. Shifting weight. Looking around. Flushing. Adjustment of clothes. Changes in vocal pitch. Anything to show that Sherlock's advance would be welcome.   
Sherlock didn't like deducing John without reason. He felt almost as though he was invading the little man's privacy. It was an odd sentiment. He had never particularly cared before and it didn't bother him to reveal the gory details of Anderson and Donovan's sex life (S&M. Handcuff marks. Discomfort when sitting. Longer skirt and shirt than usual. Blisters on hands.) or any other for that matter- but with John it was wrong. He'd only watch for the obvious things- not sleeping. Not eating enough. Nightmare. Ill.   
His little exception.   
Sherlock felt as though he had discovered a strange new species; the delicate John- native to Great Britain. Based on his temperament and general eating and sleeping habits, Sherlock decided that John would be some distant relative of the modern hedgehog. 

 

Already though this line of thought is getting old. Sherlock has never been a man of philosophy, he feels the constant urge to move, to touch and explore and search. His contemplation leaves him feeling as though his body is filled with gnats and rockets, exploding and festering in his body making his skin tingle with nervous energy. He paced and snarls at all who dare cross his path.   
He needs to tell him. The words sit on Sherlocks tougue like little weights attached by thousands of needles that dig into his every nerve, constant reminders of their presence.   
I love you.   
When he watches john talk. Heard him creaking and make soft sighing breaths in a far away land in the realm of dreams. Watched him butter his toast and bustle around making tea.   
I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.   
But every time he's about to open his mouth, let the words roll from his lips he can see the look on Johns face, he one that meant I wish you would disappear and he holds his tongue. He needs his John too much to risk losing him over a petty emotional whim.   
I love you.  
Sherlock watches Johns mouth in silent rapture as it forms delicate shaped around the rim of his coffee, the careful sweep of a vivid coral pink tongue collecting little stray drops and leaving his lips moist and a little flushed. Every day he tries to figure out what his favorite part of john is. Yesterday was his lips. The day before that was his laugh. Today may be his hands, calloused and steady. Johns fingers dance in a delicate system of digits, bones, and muscle, well maintained nails clicking softly to a silent tune along the warm cream of his favorite tea cup and-  
"Sherlock. SHERLOCK!"  
Sherlock reluctantly moves his attention away from his current focus of worship, looking into johns eyes. Colbalt. Crinkles at the edge bags under eyes worry marks more defined why-  
"Yes John?"  
-not the sister called him yesterday good news beaming face expensive takeout bad jokes not work must be-  
"I'm worried about you Sherlock. You've been all-"  
"I'm fine John."  
John plowed on, headless to the little pit of dread and oddly enough, relief gnawing at Sherlocks gut. He cuts through Sherlocks protests and inner turmoil like a warship splitting and ever crashing sea-  
"Mopey Sherlock. The last time you moped even half this much Irene Adler died and it's only gotten a hell of a lot worse now. What on earth is the matter?"  
I love you.   
"Nothing John. I'm in excellent health, so stop wasting time with useless inquiries."  
John however, was on a roll.   
"Sherlock, you're not eating, you keep zoning out and you barely have any interests in Lestrades new case. It's a double homicide, you should be up the wall by now."   
"Dull. It was obviously the sister."  
John let out an exasperated breath, rubbing the spot between his eyes as he silently pulled out his phone, most likely to contact the incompetents of Scotland Yard.   
"Sherlock. I'm just- worried about you. You aren't on drugs again are you?"  
No. Sherlock had a new addiction. A far more beneficial one.   
"I'm quite well John. I've just been.. Branching out in my interests."  
".. Are you taking new drugs?"  
Sherlock almost laughed at the horrified, god struck expression on Johns face at this "revelation". Made bold by his amusement, Sherlock ventured out on a limb.   
"No John. I have.. Met someone of interest."  
Was it his imagination or had John tensed? He tended. Sherlock was sure. His face remained a picture or calm, but Sherlock did not doubt what he had seen.   
"I see. Who?"  
"Well. He's very smart. For a normal person, he borders on brilliance."  
John blinks at the "him" part, but sinks back in his chair for the rest.   
"It's not another serial killer- is it? God Sherlock I wouldn't be able to live with even MORE body parts in the fridge."  
"No John, my person of interest is not a serial killer. He's virtuos. And brave. And loyal to a fault. He's caring for others and takes care of me and teaches me."  
John laughs ,  
"No wonder you've fallen for him. I'd love to meet this saint. Anyone who managed to teach you something deserves an award."  
"I don't believe he had won any awards, but he deserves them. He is the most patient selfless caring person I have ever met, and he takes care of everyone around him, even when it's a thankless tasks. He's saved my life more times than I can count and I think he's beautiful."  
"God. This sounds faintly like Lestrade. You are aware that he's married right?"  
John joked weakly. But Sherlock looked past that- broke his little rule and he saw it. Blown pupils. Slight flush. Fast breath. Frequent swallows. Difficulty meeting his gaze.   
Oh.   
OH.   
"No. It couldn't be Lestrade John."  
Sherlock said slowly, finally managing to lock eyes with John.   
COLBALT   
"For gods sake Sherlock either tell me or don't."  
So Sherlock leaned forward and pecked John on the lips.   
It was not a dramatic explosion like one of those trashy romance novels John denied ever reading, jus the rasp of chapped lips gently brushing Johns thin Cupid's bow. But the moment after, charged with lightning as their eyes met was the true prize. The shock in Johns eyes giving way to unbridled joy, like winter to spring. The knot of anxiety in Sherlocks throat, the one that told him he had seen something wrong, been carried away by emotions like the weaker men he despised, untangling to release something fresh and sweet and new.   
Something that tasted faintly of John.   
Sherlock liked this house.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading PLEASE leave comments or kudos to tell me what you think. I hoped you liked it!


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